


Protest

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Explicit Consent, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Sex, Safewords, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-30 07:22:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3927934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Iwaizumi can feel the weight of Oikawa’s expectation bearing down on him, anticipation stretching taut and loaded, but if he reacts at all it’s only in the line that settles across his forehead, the irritation that drags his lips down into a frown." Oikawa gets inspiration from BL manga and Iwaizumi gets irritated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Protest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RubyFiamma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyFiamma/gifts).



Iwaizumi doesn’t look up when he hears Oikawa coming down the hallway. He’s comfortable right where he is, thank you very much, and whatever pleasure might be gained from appreciating the high line of Oikawa’s cheekbones or the soft fall of his hair is more than counteracted by the necessity of dealing with his smirk and the teasing flirtation that accompanies Iwaizumi so much as glancing at him. So he keeps his eyes down, fixed on the magazine he’s reading, doesn’t look up even when the footsteps come to a halt with Oikawa leaning in over the back of the couch.

The silence goes heavy for long seconds. Iwaizumi can feel the weight of Oikawa’s expectation bearing down on him, anticipation stretching taut and loaded, but if he reacts at all it’s only in the line that settles across his forehead, the irritation that drags his lips down into a frown. He turns the page of the magazine, speaks without meeting the simmer of Oikawa’s gaze. “What do you want?”

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa purrs, like he hasn’t been waiting for Iwaizumi to notice him for minutes. Iwaizumi glances up, glaring through the strands of his hair, just as Oikawa tips his head to the side to make a long line of his throat. It’s more dramatic even than usual, courtesy of the white shirt he has barely clinging to his shoulder and only half-buttoned along the front; as Iwaizumi blinks at him Oikawa tips farther over the back of the couch, going warm and loose-limbed like he can’t remember how to stand upright.

“What are you wearing,” Iwaizumi asks without any intonation on the words at all.

“What?” Oikawa’s response is breathless, structured into trembling uncertainty that Iwaizumi is certain Oikawa has never experienced in all his life. “It’s just a shirt, Iwa-chan.” His head is going farther to the side, the shadow in his eyes completely undermining the attempt at innocence he is making with his voice. “That’s not strange, is it?”

“Nope,” Iwaizumi bites off, looking back at the page. “Not strange at all.”

There’s a huff over him, the sound of Oikawa’s facade of innocence slipping for a moment. The couch creaks, the frame shifting as Oikawa leans in farther until the back of the furniture is supporting most of his weight. “Doesn’t it bother you?” He’s too close, Iwaizumi can see the shadow of the other boy casting a faint outline over the page in front of him; if he looked up be could probably kiss him without stretching.

“No,” Iwaizumi growls. “Fuck off.”

“You’re not overwhelmed?” Oikawa is pouting, now, there’s the leading edge of put-on hurt in his voice, and Iwaizumi isn’t even reading anymore as much as glaring mounting irritation at the page. “Aren’t I too close? You’re just clinging to the last edges of composure, you’re about to snap--”

Iwaizumi closes the magazine with a snap, swings it up to smack Oikawa in the face with the edge. The other’s words cut off into a startled cry of pain, he reels back from the couch, and Iwaizumi sits up to glare while Oikawa presses his fingers to where the magazine hit his cheek.

“Don’t  _quote_  your stupid porn manga at me,” he growls. “If you want sex just  _ask_  for it.”

“That’s not what you’re supposed to say, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa protests, emerging from behind his hand to pout at Iwaizumi. “You’re supposed to tell me I’m driving you crazy and you can’t take it anymore.”

“You  _are_  driving me crazy,” Iwaizumi says. “Why do you even like those damn things so much?” Oikawa is still pouting at him, his lips red and flushed like he’s been biting them -- for all Iwaizumi knows he has been -- his shirt only half-on and clinging to his skin like it’s damp. “Is that  _my_  shirt?”

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa whines, eyes going wide and dark and injured. “You’re  _doing_  it wrong.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Iwaizumi demands. He tosses the magazine aside, sits up on the couch with all the itchy irritation of knowing he’s been baited into a response. “What the fuck do you  _want_  me to say?” He reaches out, grabs at a handful of shirt -- it _is_  his, it’s hanging too-big on Oikawa’s slimmer shoulders and making the other boy look as fragile and breakable as Iwaizumi knows he isn’t -- drags hard to burn off the edge of his anger with aggression. “That it’s your fault?” His voice is wrong, he knows, more angry than the sultry purr he’s seen in passing in the absurd videos Oikawa consumes like candy, but Oikawa’s eyelashes flutter anyway, an act no less attractive for Iwaizumi knowing it’s a show. “You want me to tell you to take  _responsibility_?”

He intends it as a mockery, means for the word to come out ironic and self-aware, but the anger in his throat strips off any more subtle tones from his words. It just sounds rough, instead, more of a growl than human speech, and Oikawa goes pliant to his touch, like he’s trying to melt into Iwaizumi’s fingers.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he breathes, a pretense of naivete Iwaizumi is sure Oikawa has never experienced in all his life, and Iwaizumi’s coming forward, grabbing another handful of his shirt and swinging up over the back of the couch.

“This is so fucking stupid,” he snaps, careless of the way the words casually shatter the illusion Oikawa clearly is attempting to construct. His feet hit the floor and Oikawa goes limp in his hold, the sudden weight at Iwaizumi’s hands pulling him off-balance until he’s stumbling forward to the ground. It’s really impressive, some bitterly rational part of his mind acknowledges, that without his intent Oikawa manages to tangle them together as they go down, Oikawa’s knee pressed high against Iwaizumi’s thigh and Iwaizumi’s hand braced hard at Oikawa’s shoulder, fingertips skimming bare skin.

Oikawa’s staring at him, some attempt at wide-eyed shock still clinging to his eyes, but his mouth is open on breathing far too heavy to pass for innocence, he’s shaking very slightly under Iwaizumi’s touch. “Iwa-chan?”

“For fuck’s sake,” Iwaizumi grates. “Fine.” He lets one of his hands go, reaches down to shove the loose fabric of the shirt up off Oikawa’s hip, and when Oikawa shivers ostentatiously at the contact he’s on him, leaning in close to growl his frustration into Oikawa’s mouth instead of the air. Oikawa’s warm, submissive under his touch and whimpering response at his lips; when he opens his mouth Iwaizumi bites at his lower lip, sucks hard enough that Oikawa whines in half-hearted protest.

“What are you doing?” Oikawa manages when Iwaizumi pulls back, looks away from the draw of the other’s half-lidded eyes so he can push open the buttons on his shirt. “I--I don’t know what you want from me.” The words are syrupy, drenched in put-on denial; Iwaizumi rolls his eyes without looking up.

“Jesus fuck, you are  _so_  ridiculous.” The shirt comes open, falls loose against Oikawa’s shoulders, and some of the irritation in Iwaizumi’s blood trips over the edge into appreciation at the expanse of bare skin in front of him. He growls, ducks his head to bite against Oikawa’s collarbone, and the other boy arches up in instant response, head going back on a groan of reaction.

“ _Ah_.” Iwaizumi slides down farther, licks a path of heat against Oikawa’s skin; he has to pushagainst the other’s hip to hold him down to the floor, but Oikawa doesn’t protest, just grabs against the strands of his hair like he’s trying to hold him steady. Iwaizumi rocks his weight back over his heels, freeing his other head to fumble down against the front of Oikawa’s jeans, and the other boy groans, the sound stuttering in his throat.

“No,” he gasps, “No,  _don’t_.”

Iwaizumi can feel the irritation tighten in his chest, pulls back in a rush to glare at Oikawa. “ _What_? You come out here to seduce me and  _now_  you--”

Oikawa tips his head down. When he blinks it’s like a mask falling off his features, his eyes coming back into focus and his mouth tensing into control instead of soft gasping. “Don’t  _stop_ , Iwa-chan, that’s not how this works.”

“What the  _fuck_  are you talking about?” Iwaizumi growls.

Oikawa sighs, lets his hold on Iwaizumi’s hair go so he can push up on an elbow. “Don’t you know  _anything_? You’re supposed to tell me you can’t hold back anymore and then you push me down while I protest until you make me enjoy myself.”

Iwaizumi blinks once, twice. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Why do you  _read_  these anyway? If you’re telling me no how am I supposed to know if you really  _do_ want me to stop?”

Oikawa’s expression collapses into amusement, laughter sparkling over his features and into his eyes. “I won’t want you to stop.”

“No way,” Iwaizumi says. “No  _way_ , if you’re gonna be playing like you don’t want it you have to be able to tell me if you really don’t.”

“Like a safeword?” Oikawa asks. “Fine, sure, I’ll say  _volleyball_  if I want you to actually stop.”

“That’s stupid,” Iwaizumi growls. “This is stupid.  _You’re_  stupid.”

“Iwa-chan--”

“Shut up,” Iwaizumi snaps, leans in to kiss at Oikawa’s mouth again. Oikawa whines, shock and heat at his lips, and he pushes his hand back down to seek out the front of Oikawa’s jeans again.

“Ah!” Oikawa arches up into his touch; he’s still hard, pressed tight against the front of his jeans, and there’s a rush of unwilling heat through Iwaizumi’s body, his own cock twitching from half to full interest at the shape of Oikawa against his palm.

“You  _do_  want it,” he says, the words vibrating over his tongue and against Oikawa’s lips, and Oikawa whines, his eyes shut like he’s avoiding Iwaizumi’s gaze.

“No,” he gasps, sounding breathless and showy and insincere. “No, I don’t.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t have to force his laugh. “You don’t sound very convincing.” He pushes Oikawa’s button open, urges the zipper down; the denim comes open, leaves just the thin fabric of Oikawa’s boxers between his fingers and the heat of the other’s cock. Oikawa’s rocking up against his touch; when Iwaizumi looks at the other boy Oikawa’s eyes are shut, his mouth open on the rush of his breathing and a crease of heat across his forehead.

“Fuck,” Iwaizumi spits, hooks his thumb under the edge of Oikawa’s boxers to push them down. “Don’t want it, huh?” He drags his fingers against the heat of Oikawa’s cock, grins sharp at the way the other’s mouth goes open and his back curves at the contact. “Yeah, sure, you’re really hating this.”

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa manages, fingers catching and twisting against the back of Iwaizumi’s neck. “Ah,  _ah_ , fe-feels good.”

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. “You’re even more irritating like this.” He leans back, lets Oikawa go so he can drag the other’s jeans down off his hips. Oikawa arches up off the floor as Iwaizumi gets his clothes free; his legs are pale without the cover of his jeans, the hard line of his cock pulling Iwaizumi’s attention before he twists sideways, tucking his knees up towards his chest in an unusual display of self-consciousness.

“Don’t look at me,” Oikawa whimpers, fitting a hand down to press between his thighs. His cheeks are flushed, his shoulders hunched like he’s the virgin Iwaizumi knows he’s not; if it weren’t for the shadowed sideways glance he gives Iwaizumi he wouldn’t be out of place on the pages of the manga he likes so much.

“Christ,” Iwaizumi groans, his gaze dragging down the half-exposed line of Oikawa’s spine. It makes an elegant curve from the pushed-up edge of white shirt down to the tilt of his hips, the curve of his ass, and it’s then that Iwaizumi sees the catch of light off slick skin.

“Fuck,” he says, grabs at Oikawa’s knee to push his legs apart by an inch. “Did you already open yourself up?”

Oikawa whimpers, turns his face down like he’s trying to hide against the floor. It’s maybe a coincidence that the motion tips his hips over, makes an offering of himself for Iwaizumi’s gaze, but Iwaizumi doesn’t care if it’s a show or not; he’s thinking about Oikawa sliding fingers into himself, putting elegant hands to work stretching himself open, and he’s too hard inside his jeans to think straight.

“Fuck me,” and he’s grabbing at Oikawa’s hip, shoving the other boy over onto his knees while he pulls his own jeans open one-handed. “You’re so fucking filthy.” Oikawa tips his hips up, turns his head to look back over his shoulder at Iwaizumi; his eyelashes are fluttering into shadow, his gaze far more tempting than his adopted persona has any right to be. Iwaizumi’s jeans come open, he pushes the fabric aside without bothering to get entirely free of the clothing; it’s enough to get his fingers around the base of his cock, to hold himself steady while he lines himself up. “I can’t believe you, you’ve just been ready for me this whole time.”

“No,” Oikawa breathes, the rejection too sultry to pass even as acting even without the way he arches his back and flattens his hand against the floor to brace himself. “No, don’t.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Iwaizumi snaps, and he thrusts himself forward in one rushing motion. Oikawa really  _is_  ready, hot and so slick Iwaizumi is sinking into him faster than he expected, and the friction is nice but far better is the way Oikawa jerks, the sudden startled “ _Iwa-chan_ ” in his throat, the fact that Iwaizumi can’t hear anything but his Oikawa in the sound.

“Yeah,” he growls in meaningless approval, presses in farther until the whole length of him is buried inside the other boy. “You done pretending now?” He leans forward, reaches out to fit his hand to the back of Oikawa’s neck; Oikawa tips his head forward obediently, lets Iwaizumi’s fingers curl in against the soft line of his hair, and something purrs satisfaction in Iwaizumi’s blood even before he draws himself back to slide forward again in a slick-smooth motion.

“I don’t like you acting like someone else,” he informs Oikawa, pressing in as deep as he can manage so the heat and the friction spark satisfaction up under his skin. “I just want you to be yourself, the way you are for me.”

“Yours?” Oikawa suggests, turning his head under Iwaizumi’s hold so he’s looking up through his hair. Iwaizumi can see how flushed his mouth is, can make out the part of his lips on his inhales.

“Fuck,” he says, and “Yeah,” and he leans in closer, pushes harder at Oikawa’s neck to hold him down so he can reach around the other’s hip to grab a hold on the other’s length. “Yeah,  _mine_.” Oikawa’s burning to the touch, slick all across the head of his cock; Iwaizumi tightens his hold, strokes up in a rush. He can feel Oikawa tense around him, the ripple of reaction gripping tight against him, has to groan an exhale before he can keep speaking. “Tell me who you belong to.”

There’s a laugh, a shiver of amusement that curls the edges of Oikawa’s mouth in spite of his eyes falling shut, his breathing coming heavy under the movement of Iwaizumi’s fingers. “Possessive much, Iwa-chan?”

Iwaizumi twists his hand, fast enough that Oikawa gasps and jerks at the sensation, thrusts in deeper. “ _Tell me_.”

“ _Iwa-chan_ ,” Oikawa groans. Iwaizumi can see his fingers tensing against the floor, can see sensation knotting in the line of his shoulders. “Yours, Iwa-chan, I’m  _yours_.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Iwaizumi spits, and he’s coming, the slide of his hips jerking into irregularity under the weight of heat in his veins. Oikawa’s tightening around him, whimpering something incoherent against the floor, and Iwaizumi keeps moving his hand, the action more reflexive than deliberate. There’s a rush of sensation as Oikawa’s body draws tense, the friction almost too much for the shudders of pleasure coursing through Iwaizumi, and then Oikawa chokes off a moan, and Iwaizumi blinks himself back into clarity as the other boy sags against the floor, tremors of satisfaction rippling along his spine and spilling hot over Iwaizumi’s fingers.

They’re both shaking when Iwaizumi pulls back. His hand is sticky, the fingers at Oikawa’s neck bracing so hard he can see the prints of them when he draws his hold away. Oikawa turns over as soon as he’s free, sprawls boneless and languid over the floor with his usual casual grace, and when he lifts a hand to gesture Iwaizumi in the other boy is too tired and overheated to protest. He goes, falling hard enough that the impact blows all the air out of Oikawa in a rush; then he’s lying half atop the other, his forehead pressed in against Oikawa’s shoulder and his arm draped across the other’s waist. Oikawa catches his breath, lifts a hand to press his fingertips into Iwaizumi’s hair, and Iwaizumi lets a breath go along with his tension to relax into the friction.

“Your fingers are sticky,” Oikawa observes presently.

“Your fault,” Iwaizumi says without any heat.

There’s a pause. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d be possessive, Iwa-chan.”

“Oh, shut up,” Iwaizumi growls.

There’s a laugh, bright and breathless with sincerity, fingers curling in to fit against the back of Iwaizumi’s head. “I don’t mind,” Oikawa purrs, the hum of amusement that says it’s going to be a long time before Iwaizumi hears the end of this. “I really am yours, you know.”

Iwaizumi considers a retort, a protest or an insult or a threat to get Oikawa to shut up. But when he reaches all he can find is one response, and when he turns his head in towards Oikawa’s shoulder it’s to growl amused sincerity against the other’s skin.

“You had better be.”


End file.
